


Edge of Paradise

by Savvylicious



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adventure, Also slow updates, Eventual Smut, If I can write that anyway, M/M, Multi, Prepare to get invested, Romance, Slow Build, So much flirting, dumb idiots in love, very slow build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-23 11:31:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3766522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savvylicious/pseuds/Savvylicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian can be quite insensitive without realising it, so he takes it upon himself to try and reconcile with the Inquisition's valiant leader. But, it's not going to be as easy as he thought. Who knew elves could be so stubborn, and attractive?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fading in, Fading out.

Dorian was quite used to hostility. He’d endured it from his family, from his peers at most every college he’d wandered into, and now from nearly everyone in Haven. Most dismally it seemed, from the one man he respected most.

 _The Inquisitor_.

True, it hadn’t always been that way. When they’d first met, Mahanon Lavellan had been nothing short of professional and courteous towards him, even if they’d disagreed on a few things. Their time together had been short, mostly brief conversations in passing. The Inquisitor did a lot of talking to his magical advisor and Dorian was conveniently on the way. He’d have liked to know the nature of such conversations, but alas. He did not speak the elvish tongue. But barely a month had passed and now Mahanon wouldn’t even so much as glance at him.

Then again, it might have had something to do with their last bit of interactions.

  “That’s just it-- You don’t question it!”

  “Up North, that’s just how it is,” Dorian said, bristling defensively. “Alienages. Slums, both human and elven alike. There’s no way out. But, back home, a poor man can sell himself. As a slave, he could have a position of respect, comfort, and could even support a family.”

The look the elf had given him that day had been nothing short of venomous.

He stumbled, trying to reconcile at least a bit of their lukewarm camaraderie, “True-- Some slaves are treated poorly, it’s true-- but do you honestly think inescapable poverty is better?”

Mahanon had grown eerily quiet then, turning his head away to glare daggers into the tavern wall just down the stairs. “At least they’re free. _They_ don’t have slavery forced on them.”

Dorian scoffed at the elf’s naivety. Something he regretted later on while he reflected on his poor choice of words. “You think people chose to be poor and depressed? I doubt--”

“I think we _**chose**_ not to be slaughtered! Not to be taken from our camps in the middle of the night, torn from our screaming mothers. I think we would give anything to be treated like a being that has thought and feeling!”

Dorian shut his mouth, baffled at the crack in Lavellan’s usually carefree disposition.

“I think they’d _**chose**_ not to be chained up and carted across all corners of Thedas like cargo. Tell me, _Dorian_ ,” Mahanon spat, voice shaking with rage. His eyes were such a frightening shade of green that Dorian feared a rift would open up above them, right then and there. “Would you _**chose**_ to be sold like an animal on market day? Praying to any deity that would listen that something would come and save you? Or at least your buyer be someone with a little kindness in their heart? Knowing very well that they could potentially be someone horrendous? Someone that would be disgusting enough to... To take advantage of your helpless position.”

Dorian watched in silence as the rogue took a moment to compose himself, shoulders curled in obvious discomfort, as he had pointedly never tried to see this issue from the eyes of an unwilling slave.

“Just--- Just forget it. I was stupid to think that there was at least one good shem from that rathole country you’re so terribly fond of.”

Scratch that. It’d had everything to do with that conversation.

Still, Dorian sighed. If his timid friendship with the Inquisitor had ended there, then why was he continually brought along on their outings. Surely if Lavellan disliked him so much, he’d leave Dorian back in the village. There were two other mages just as skilled as him and yet he was always dragged along. Verbal sparring with Cassandra and Bull could only be so entertaining.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~*******~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

To say the mood was sullen was an understatement. Haven was destroyed and many of the faces Dorian had grown used to seeing were no longer around. True, Mahanon had miraculously returned, bundled tight in Cullen’s massive cloak, and for all their current animosity, Dorian couldn’t help but be relieved at the sight of him. Mostly alive.

He still remembered the way Corypheus had lifted the elf off of the ground and tossed him like a ragdoll. Mahanon’s pained whimper as he slammed against the icy ground and broken trebuchet. To see the Inquisitor look so helpless, to see him be handled in such a manner unnerved him. With a sinking feeling, Dorian realised that he too had been seeing Lavellan more as an idea than a person, which in turn reminded him of their heated chat on slavery in Tevinter.

He’d been an _ass_.

A special talent of his, really.

Heaving himself from the frosty ground had been harder than he thought. His frozen joints creaked in protest, but he dragged himself from his little nest nonetheless. Josephine had shooed the bulk of the crowd from around the Inquisitor’s tent, but she could not move their closer circle. Sera and Varric sat huddled together for warmth near the fire. Vivienne had retired to a more sheltered part and was quietly engaged in conversation with Cullen and the spymaster. Bull and the Chargers stood idle by the tent and Dorian could hear their quiet murmuring as they neared.

“---got a fever. Doesn’t sound good.”

“You’re unnaturally warm boss, maybe you could climb into bed with little spitfire and help ward the cold.”

“Very funny Krem.”

Dorian pulled his borrowed cloak tighter and was relieved when Blackwall stood aside and let him enter. Cassandra and Solas hovered by Mahanon’s makeshift bed, faces pinched with worry. He wasn’t a skilled healer, but Solas was channeling whatever magic he could into Lavellan’s palm. When he’d entered, Cassandra’s gaze darted to him, and for a moment he expected her usual hostility, but she only nodded to him.

  “Dorian,” she began, husky voice uncertain, “It’s good to see you.”

  “And good to be seen, I imagine. I am quite nice to look at.”

She might have rolled her eyes at his vanity, but Mahanon had breathed a quiet moan and the anchor sparked. Solas reared back, the tips of his fingers singed, and fixed Cassandra with an exhausted look.

  “I cannot repair the damage this time,” he breathed heavily, nostrils flaring. “He is too weak to control it.”

“Then what are we supposed to do in the meantime?!”

Solas took a seat, rubbing the sweat from his brow. “Let him heal. It’s all we can do.”

She did not look satisfied with the answer, but he was clearly done talking to her. Cassandra opened her mouth to protest, but was silenced when the anchor pulsed once more and Mahanon unconsciously gasped in pain. She fretted, then nodded, brushing past Dorian on her way out.

“He is with fever, and his wounds are severe,” Solas said, not looking to see if Dorian was listening or not. “But I suspect he will pull through. He is rather tough.”

 _Tough was an understatement_.

Dorian helped himself to a seat near the Inquisitor’s cot, much preferring the heat inside the tent to the merciless mountain air outside.

“Anything I could do to help?” he heard himself ask, surprised by the mere mention of it. He usually wasn’t one to offer his assistance so easily. And not to someone he thought wouldn't be grateful for it.

Still, he supposed he did respect Lavellan. And he had been rather unkind. What was he thinking, defending slavery to an elf. One that no doubt faced persecution and racism every day in his life.

Solas was quiet for a long while. Dorian thought he might have actually fallen asleep, but the rift mage had sighed into wakefulness after a minute.

“He will die if we remain here, as will many others,” he paused, then turned his gaze to Dorian, honey eyes dark and serious. “There is a place, not far from here. It is abandoned, and unknown to most. However, I have not been there in some time. I must return there if I am to remember how to find it. Which means I must dream.”

He leaned over and drew the furs closer around Mahanon’s shaking form, a gesture that was rather caring and tender for someone that seemed as distant as he was.

“I'd ask that you sit with him. Place a cool rag on his forehead every half hour or so. He should be with a friend right now.”

Dorian couldn’t stop the snort that left him. Solas raised a brow.

“Something I said?”

“We are not exactly, _friendly_. In case you haven’t noticed. I’m almost certain he wishes to throw me off a cliff right now.” He reclined in his chair, voice lowering and losing some of its usual haughtiness. "Not to say I don't deserve it. I wasn't exactly... As understanding as I should have been."

Solas stood and went to the tents opening, turning to look over his shoulder to say one last thing before he left. “Regardless of anything he’s said to you recently, he's always thought rather highly of you.”

Dorian scoffed at the elf’s retreating form, but fell into a stifled silence once left alone with Mahanon. Even though he was deeply asleep, Dorian still felt out of place. Almost as if he was intruding. He fidgeted for a moment, crossing a leg so that he could look casually comfortable. Just in case someone were to walk in.

Though, anyone outside of the Inquisition would probably think that he, the big bad Magister, was sitting idly, twirling his mustache like the villain out of a storybook, waiting for the Herald to draw his last.

The idea amused him for a while, morbid as it was. He only returned to the present when Mahanon murmured feebly.

He was so pale. The intricate tattoos on his face were so much darker without the healthy glow of his skin. His hair, usually bright and golden, was now thin and lackluster. It was spread out on the pillow supporting his neck and stuck to his forehead. The rise and fall of his chest was sporadic, uneven, and shallow. It made Dorian uncomfortable. He was so used to seeing Lavellan prance about like the deer he was, full of energy. Nothing like the weak thing lying pitifully under a mountain of blankets.

Remembering what Solas had asked him to do, Dorian reached for the bowl on the chest beside the cot, taking the wet rag from it and wringing it a little before gingerly placing it on Mahanon’s feverish forehead. He shivered, and Dorian’s hand lingered.

“Ma halani…” the elf mumbled, “Ir abelas. Nuvenin…”

Garbled nonsense as it was to him, Dorian could hear the distress. He let his touch remain for a while, frowning at the feel of Lavellan’s burning skin, and then leaned backwards back into his chair.

Hopefully Solas didn’t plan on being gone for too long.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~*******~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Much to his disgruntled dismay, Dorian found himself hoodwinked into permanently watching the ill Inquisitor.  
****

True, Vivienne was there to spoon broth into his mouth. She rubbed poultices on his wounds, changed the sheets, and saw to his bandages, but she always came and politely found some way to lure him back into the stuffy tent.

Days passed, Solas continued searching, and Mahanon’s conditioned worsened.

Dorian could only watch in dismay as his health continually declined. No longer did he fight his blankets, or open his listless eyes to look around the tent in befuddled confusion. Vivienne had to coax the soup down his throat now. Dorian had to help him sit up while she tugged the damp blankets from his ever chilling body.

Sera peeked in every once in a while, sitting crosslegged by Mahanon’s cot so Dorian could have a brief respite. He tried not to eavesdrop on her one-sided conversations, but he often caught snippets when he eventually did return.

“---innit? I mean, you really showed him what for. I bet’cha he’s off licking his nasty claws right now. Bet he’ll think twice ‘fore he tries steppin’ on us again, huh?” She picked at her nails, twitching. “He will try again--stepping on us. The little people. The Inquisition. So that’s why… That’s why you gotta get better, yeah? Who else will stand up fer us?”

Cassandra also was a regular visitor, much to Dorian’s amusement. He hadn’t known that Mahanon was popular with the ladies.

True, he supposed the elf was attractive. With his bright hair, slicked back just so. His tattoos were a marvel, masterfully detailed and a beautiful contrast to his creamy skin. His green eyes, vibrant and sparkling as spring. That warm, lopsided smile he’d offered after admitting that he was glad it was Dorian trapped in the fade with him.

He squashed the fluttery feeling in his stomach at the memory and greeted Cassandra when she entered.

“My my, people will talk. Or at least, I certainly will.”

“I probably shouldn’t ask you to elaborate, but about what?” She leaned on a support beam, arms behind her back and eyebrows raised.

“Your _unyielding_ love for our dashing Inquisitor of course. You’ve come in here every day, twice a day, without fail. Truly dedicated.”

Cassandra spluttered for a moment, something Dorian thought adorable, and pushed away from the beam. “Nonsense. Certainly I care for him as a friend and look to him as a leader, but nothing more.” She regained her cool composure, frowning deeply at the Tevintian. “Besides, he is the Inquisitor, he should not be distracted from his duties with such frivolities.”

He only laughed, wholly unconvinced of her denial, and tipped back in his chair.

The tent grew silent again, sounds outside and Mahanon’s shallow breathing the only things to break the quiet. Cassandra hovered for a moment, her gaze saddening as she watched him sleep, and then she pulled her arms to her front.

  “Here,” she said with uncertainty, offering Dorian wrapped package. “You must be tired of sitting and watching.”

  “How _observant_ ,” he replied with sarcasm, but accepted the parcel regardless. It was light, and he was eager to open it.

“I remember you mentioning that Haven was ‘lacking in literature.’ It’s something you can do while you watch him. One of… Varric’s.”

Her tone made him raise a brow, and he pulled the coverings loose with interest. “Swords and Shields?”

“It’s... A **romance** novel.”

“Not yours then, I take it?”

Cassandra was quiet.

“Sweet Divine, it is yours, isn’t it?”

She glared. It was frightful enough that he shrunk a bit. “Tell anyone, and I will rip that furry caterpillar from your lip and sew it to your brow. Understand?”

“P-Perfectly.”

Cassandra seemed placated, and she glanced at Mahanon once more before leaving the tent. Dorian turned to the sleeping elf when she had gone and leaned down, whispering lowly into his ear.

“If that’s the woman you have your eye on, I wish you all the luck in the world.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~*******~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Two more days passed, and Vivienne’s checkups became more frequent. Even she was starting to look grim. Dorian had skimmed what he could of his borrowed book, but Mahanon had started to move again.

Just, not for the right reasons.

At first he thought it a good thing, as Mahanon was partially awake and focused. Why, he’d even greeted Dorian!

It may have been a garbled, confused, ‘ _good morning_ ,’ but it was a good morning nonetheless. Dorian helped him sit up, hand on the small of his back, and answered what questions he could understand. He suspected something was off when Mahanon stood and tried to leave the tent.

Dorian caught him when he fell, holding the elf upright even when he struggled.

  “Let go… Let go. I’m fine… Fine.”

“No, you’re not. You’re burning up and I’m no expert, but I think it’s evolved.”

Mahanon grumbled and tugged on his wrists more fervently, “-Rian let go. I have… Have to… Hm. They're fighting again.”

“It’s alright, we’re fine. Sitting ducks at the moment, but we’re in no immediate danger.”

He was not convinced, however, and continued to pull backwards. For him being so ill, he was still pretty strong. Dorian tightened his grip, and thought on what to do. The only thing that came to mind was letting the elf exhaust himself with his struggling.

"Please, let me... Let me at least go outside. For a moment," Mahanon murmured, finally calming down. "I can't breathe in here anymore."

Dorian released a wrist and caught Lavellan's lulling head before it hit his chest, feeling for himself just how high the fever had gotten. The rag compress had stopped working. Mahanon was going to die of a heatstroke if he wasn't cooled down, and fast.

 _Where was Solas, or Vivienne when you needed them_?

Lightning was more Dorian's forte, but he could manage a simple cooling spell.

He pushed some energy into his palms, lowering the temperature to that of cold water, and pressed a hand on the back of Mahanon's neck and forehead, reveling in the elf's sigh of relief. Dorian supported him as he sagged, pointedly not paying attention to the smaller hand that found and clutched to his belt.

  "You're very stubborn you know," he heard himself say with a softness he didn't know he had.

Mahanon mumbled something incoherent and pressed against his palms further.

"How about this, if your temperature doesn't go down within the next minute or so, I will personally escort you outside. The cold air might do better than my hands."

  "I like your hands."

  "Blessed spirits, you _are_ delirious."


	2. Not thinking straight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies are wonderful things.

Dorian meant to keep his promise, he really did. But by the time he was convinced that Mahanon wasn’t going to perish in his arms, which was well past a minute, the rogue had fallen asleep. A triumphant smile quirked at his lips. With great care, Dorian eased the Inquisitor back onto the cot. It seemed that Vivienne’s original plan of sweating the fever out wasn’t going to work. He tucked the thinner furs over Mahanon’s prone form, then went to the front of the tent and threw the covers open. Letting the cool air in was refreshing, but could also be dangerous. Dorian looked over his shoulder to see how the elf reacted to the change in temperature, and felt his lips twitch into a fonder smile when Mahanon only sighed with relief.

Funny, how caring for someone made you more responsible.

Sera had been dozing, but shot up and scurried in as soon as Dorian had left. He’d have liked to have her energy.

He could hear the raised voices of Leliana, Cullen, and Josephine from their own tent. Arguing about one thing or another he supposed, and picked his way through the camp to find Vivienne. Someone should praise him for saving their bravely stupid Inquisitor.

She was seated some ways away, politely conversing with Mother Giselle. When the two of them finally acknowledged his presence, he immediately felt scolded.

  “Lord Dorian. I trust all is well?”

The title sounded more like a sneer from her. “I suppose if you think letting the Inquisitor waste away is well, then certainly.” 

  “Oh? Pray tell. I thought I’d left him in the hands of someone _capable_.”

Dorian clenched his teeth, but smiled politely. “Charming as usual, dear enchantress. But you must know, I’m no good at healing spells. I was led to believe that you, on the other hand. Were.” 

Mother Giselle observed their verbal sparring with the disdain of a parent, cutting in before more scathing remarks could be made. “Is the Herald alright?”

  “For the moment, yes. A bit on the fried side, but I suspect he’ll be fine now that his blood isn’t boiling.”

Vivienne stood, genuine concern flashing in her eyes. Dorian held up his hands to stop her, trying not to look as smug as he felt. “Sweating the fever out won’t work in this climate. It’s too cold. And not to rub salt in the wound, but treatment like that has been disproven in Tevinter.”

  “This is not Tevinter my dear, and thank _goodness_ for that.”

Dorian resisted the urge to roll his eyes and gave up entirely on the idea of gloating. Vivienne was too proud a mage to admit when she was wrong. “Just let him sleep it off for a couple nights. No more smothering him.”

  “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~*******~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

When Dorian had finally returned to his post the next morning, he was surprised to find Krem standing guard. They exchanged curious glances but the mercenary was well-mannered enough to let him in. Mahanon was mostly awake, propped up and bleary eyed with Bull at the end of the bed and Varric on the left side. 

  “Well, if it isn’t Sparkler. Come on in.”

  “We were just about to play a game of wicked grace.”

Dorian quirked an eyebrow but took a seat on the extra chair by the right of the cot nonetheless. “I hope you realise that you’re both taking advantage of him. He’s aberrant.”

  “He can still match cards. I think." 

  “I remember one time Hawke got so shit-faced, she insisted that every Angel card in her hand was worth six points, and since she had three, she had accumulated eighteen. The matching serpents gave her a whopping thirty-eight, and she argued with Junior until the both of them were blue in the face. Funny thing was-- Neither of them had any idea what they were talking about, because there are no points in Wicked Grace. Choir boy had to carry her home, kicking and screaming.” Varric chuckled at the memory, dealing five cards each to the four of them. “So, the idea is, who knows what sort of out of bounds rule our Inquisitor might invent, crazy with fever.”

  “I am right here you know,” Mahanon grumbled, trying to escape the lulling pull of the pillows behind him.

Bull laughed as Dorian reached over and lightly pressed his fingers to the elf’s inked brow, checking his temperature. “Not _so_ out of your mind anymore then. Fascinating, isn’t it? What turning up the heat will do to one’s head.”

Mahanon held perfectly still for a moment, crosseyed and disgruntled, but then brushed the hand aside as if it had burned him. Dorian was immensely glad that he’d long been an expert at hiding his disappointment.

  “Well?” Bull said, picking up his cards. “We going to play, or sit here and chit-chat?”

Varric and Dorian also gathered their hands, and all three looked to Lavellan expectantly. Mahanon eventually copied them, but squinted sleepily at his cards, frowning.

  “Hey, boss. You wanna just sit this one out until you’re feeling up to it?”

  “No… No. I think I’m fine.”

Bull reached over and took one of the elf’s cards, turning it the right way around. “Well. That might help.”

Either Mahanon was excellent at steeling his expressions, or he was completely concentrated on staying awake. Whichever the reason was, he didn't so much as twitch when Bull and Dorian chortled with amusement.

Four rounds passed. Two wins for Dorian, who to his credit, was a filthy cheat, and one for Bull and Varric each. The talk that passed between them was friendly, quiet, and relaxed. Mahanon offered a drowsy word here and there, but was looking positively dreadful by the end of the third round. He did not pick up his cards when Varric dealt them for the fifth, having nodded off.

  “Well, I suppose that ends that,” Dorian said, setting his hand down. Bull grunted and did the same.

  “Crap deal this round anyway.”

  “You’re telling me.” Varric began to collect their cards, scooping them into a pile. But he stopped and turned over Mahanon’s, just out of curiosity.

The three of them leaned in, staring at the perfect streak of knights in utter disbelief.

  “Holy shit,” Bull said at last, pulling back so he could relax in his chair again.

  “Eloquently said, my horned fellow. Couldn’t have put it better myself.”

  “Well.” Varric gathered the rest, slipping the cards back into his coat pocket once he’d stood, “Now I know who to watch out for next time we play.” He offered a smile, glanced at Mahanon who was happily dozing, and ducked out of the tent.

Bull, who apparently did not understand the concept of sick people needing rest, clapped the elf on his shoulder, grinning widely when the other snapped awake and to attention. “Good game, boss. Get better.”

Mahanon tried in vain to hide his wince and watched hazily as the Qunari left. Which left only Dorian, who was trying very hard to appear wholly interested in his nails. The silence that ensued was a bit on the awkward side.

  “I... Well. Thank you.”

  “For what?” Dorian asked, looking up from his nails. The game? My company? My dashing good looks?”

  “Do you ever take anything seriously?”

  “Do you ever _not_ take anything seriously?”

  “Do you always answer a question with a question?”

Dorian chuffed, good humoredly. “I suppose that depends on the question, naturally. Would you prefer me to answer in another fashion?”

  “I was trying to-... Yesterday you… You’ve been… _Ma souveri_.” Mahanon looked annoyed now, or at the very least frustrated. He raised his hands and pulled at the skin beneath his eyes, muttering darkly in elvish. “If this is your way of apologising to me, then you can stop. I am not going to agree with you.”

  “I wasn’t asking you to.”

  “Really? Then why bother with all this buttering up to me?”

Dorian recoiled, mouth curving upwards in distaste. “Just so we’re clear; Solas asked me to watch you. I haven’t sat here for a week, mothering you like a hen, simply for the sake of _sucking up_. And secondly, in case you forgot, I came all the way here to the ass end of Fereldan to fight for you and your cause.” He paused, his expression softening. “I want you to succeed. Nothing has changed that.”

Mahanon glanced up, peering from underneath his mussed hair with genuine surprise. Then, gratitude.

  “And I’ve something else to say, now that we’ve gotten into the nasty, personal business.” Dorian hunched forward, folding his hands in his lap. “About what I said. I don’t want you to think I condone it. You must understand, it’s just how I was raised. I grew up with slaves. I honestly had never given much thought to it once I’d left the Imperium.” His tone grew softer, more reluctant, but entirely honest. “I admit that I am educated enough to know the wrongs of it, and I overlooked them for the overall benefits. What you said, about what happens to the ones who don’t chose for themselves? Truthfully, I have tried not to think about them. It’s not because I do not care, but because I could never do anything about it. Being a social outcast is already dangerous enough without adding ‘civil rights activist’ to it.”

  “So, you’re apologising, that you’re not apologising?”

  “I... was apologising.”

Mahanon squinted, mouth pulling off to the side. “You try not to think about slaves, because they make you uncomfortable? Is that it?”

  “That’s not what I--”

  “And because it’d be _dangerous_ for you to speak out against it?” The elf scoffed, his tone bordering on dangerous. “So, what? You're saying could be killed for refusing to purchase them?”

  “No.”

  “So then, how exactly is it dangerous?”

Dorian was a man easily vexed, but he was trying his very best to keep calm. This wasn't a topic he was particularly comfortable in divulging. “It just is, Inquisitor. It's not as black and white as you’re making it out to be.”

 “But it is! Stop dancing around it. Do you, or do you not, personally agree with the idea of slavery?” Mahanon gave the mage a moment to ponder, slicking his hair back to its usual style before settling down into his blankets. When Dorian still did not speak, he leaned forward and matched their eyes. “Look. You’re a valued member of the Inquisition. I’ll not force your opinions, or limit your ideas and speech. Just.... Be honest with me. I trust and respect you, even if I don't always agree with you. You’re not in Tevinter anymore, Dorian. You don’t have to pretend.”

Mahanon would never understand how liberating those words were to him. Even if it didn't exactly hold the same meaning in this instance. “I... I suppose I don't. You're right. I'm sorry.”

Dorian Pavus, **apologising**. His father would have a conniption.

“Apology accepted then,” Mahanon said, finally relaxing. Then, without warning, he leaned over and flicked Dorian on the shoulder playfully. “I’m wasn't exactly the smartest elf in my clan Dorian, so please be try to direct with me. I get distracted easily.”

Glad for the abrupt change of subject, Dorian laughed. “So is that why you’re always rearranging the pieces on the war table during the meetings?”

  “Don’t tell Cullen. He’ll be heartbroken.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~*******~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The following morning, Mahanon Lavellan joined the world of the living.

His health was still questionable, but Vivienne had given him her blessing. He was outside as fast as he could manage, bundled up to twice his size but happy as a clam. He greeted his advisors, smiling softly when Josephine all but shoved Cullen and Leliana aside to hug him tightly. He chose not to comment on the tears of relief that leaked from her beautiful eyes. Sera shoved pieces of bread into his mouth whenever she had the opportunity and someone was always somehow there to offer an arm if he looked out of breath or to catch him if he stumbled. His left arm throbbed mercilessly, now that the worst of the fever was no longer around to distract him. It was bandaged and Mahanon held it to his stomach for the most part. He felt sore everywhere, and even just the simplest task of walking was exhausting.

An hour passed and by the end of it, he was ready to hobble back to his cot and sleep for a year. Thankfully, there was a friendly face waiting near the fire to encourage him, and after he’d said his goodbyes to the Chargers, Mahanon trudged through the snow to stand beside Cassandra.

  “You should be sleeping.”

  “I’m no good to anyone asleep,” He countered, drowsily. “One week away and the three of them are at each other’s throats.”

They looked to Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen, who had just clearly finished arguing. Cassandra sighed, crossing her arms. “At least they all have the same interest at heart.”

Mahanon yawned, ducking his chin into the scarf around his neck. If Cassandra leaned so their shoulders touched, he made no mention of it.

When Solas approached with news of his discovery, the grim atmosphere of the Haven survivors swelled with hope.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~*******~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The climb up was difficult, even for the ones not injured in the attack. Mahanon was gallant enough to lead the start of the precession for half an hour, but was coerced into sitting in a wagon with some other wounded soon after. He was asleep within minutes.

Varric steered the cart, Cole at his side, going slow and easy so as not to jostle their passengers. Dorian and the Chargers trailed right behind them. Talk was scarce for the rougher hike up, but on the occasional break or flatlands, conversation flowed.

Dorian decided that he liked the chargers, and Bull. Even if he thought the Qunari was every bit the barbarian he'd been led to believe. They were a good, merry company. With some of the most unbelievable stories he'd ever heard. Krem was a puzzle he'd have liked to learn more about, but he knew better than to pry. The Chargers treated him well, despite his differences, and it was almost heartwarming to see such support.

He almost wished that he too could have a place like that where he was welcomed without question.

Ah, but there he was. Being sentimental again.

Cole was also a mystery. The boy, or rather; spirit, was an enigma. He would mumble to himself occasionally, some nonsense or other, but then suddenly snap back to the present. Dorian wasn't sure if he should be cautious, but he didn't feel the need to skirt him like the others did. Varric seemed to be an excellent judge of character if he had anything to go by, and it was with that knowledge that he approached and stepped on the cart.

  "Hello boys," he began with, making himself comfortable on the corner. "How goes it?"

  "This coach supposed to be for invalids only Sparkler."

  "Oh, but look at this dreadful splinter I just got. You know, I do think that it could be fatal."

  "I can't believe it. Someone more dramatic than Hawke."

  "I do try."

Cole rocked forward a little, interrupting their playful banter to mumble. "Thought he was going to die. Mama said that he might. So I made flowers, just like when daddy went back to the Maker. He's an elf though, do they go too?"

Dorian stared for a long while, then looked to the back of the cart and saw a little girl clutching a ring of woven flowers in her hands. She sat in her mother's lap and Mahanon spoke quietly to the both of them from his cocoon of furs. Dorian watched them for a moment, then glanced back to Cole, amazed.

  "How did you do that?"

  "I hear them. Their pain. Their fear. Sometimes I can help." He peeked from his oversized hat, lips turned up in an almost smile, "Sometimes I don't have to."

Varric scratched at his chin, then gave Cole’s back a pat. “Kid’s got a talent. It’s weird as hell and often times really personal, but it’s something else alright.”

Intrigued, Dorian inched closer. “So, you can hear a person’s thoughts?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes not. I only listen if I think they hurt.”

  “Absolutely fascinating.”

Varric snorted, “Don’t go getting any ideas Sparkler. Think of all the progress you’ve made.”

  “What? I wouldn’t go sticking my nose in. I just think this gift of his could be useful.”

  “I _help_ people.” Cole said, firmly. “Does knowing if the Iron Bull wears small clothes or not, help people?”

At that moment, they ran over a bump and Dorian choked and fell backwards. Rather undignified for a mage of his stature to be lying on his back in a dirty cart, limbs splayed and hair askew. Varric howled with laughter and Cole leaned over to make sure he was alright. Some of the other passengers did as well, including the little girl and as luck would have it, Mahanon.

  “Well. This is certainly a change,” The Inquisitor said, wearing a wry smile. “I’m rather used to looking up at you. Not the other way around.”

Dorian offered a lopsided smile of his own, “What can I say, I’m _very_ flexible.”


	3. I'll survive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home sweet home.

When they'd finally pulled up to the ruins of Skyhold, most everyone had fallen silent. The crumbling castle looked foreboding, but altogether impenetrable. For the bone weary, wandering survivors, it was as good a place to take refuge as any. Cullen led a large scale expedition to ensure that the castle was as deserted as it looked, which left the Mahanon and the dozen or so children outside the gates to their own devices. Varric and Cole kept their watchful eye on the little ones while the Inquisitor dozed.

Dorian had agreed to scout out the surveying area with Sera in tow, but he found that he could not keep his eyes from wandering. The little girl had since put her flowers on Mahanon's lap in a silent offering, which in its own right was sweet. However, the gesture gave similar ideas to the other refugee children, and they'd begun weaving their own crowns of ferns and dianthus. Slowly, the pile of flowers began to grow, and soon the snoozing elf had been covered in them.

The sight was heartwarming enough to even make Cassandra crack a smile when she and her own squad had returned from their recon. 

Mahanon remained blissfully unaware, and only burrowed into his furs deeper when the children began leaving their creations on his hair and shoulders. When Dorian and Sera had finished their round, they too began fashioning flowers into chains and braids, much to the little ones' delight.

Dorian was particularly proud of one he'd crafted of ivy and dandelions, and simply knew that the colours would perfectly compliment the Inquisitor's hair and eyes. He'd been giving the ones he'd made before to the children so they could be the ones to sneak up and drop them onto the unsuspecting archer. But for whatever reason, he wanted to put this one on Mahanon himself.

Certainly not for any ulterior motive. Just a bit of fun. He thought with a mirthless chuckle, tiptoeing to the elf as quietly as he was able. No harm, no foul.

As carefully and quietly as he could, Dorian set the ringlet on the very top of Mahanon's head, while Sera and the children watched in absolute silence. The elf twitched a little when the accessory slid down and unto his brow, as it was a little too big, and began to stir in obvious befuddlement. Sera and the kids at least had the common sense to duck under the cart, which left Dorian stuck exactly where he was. With no hope of fleeing without being spotted, he tried to look as casual as possible, and leaned against the cart.

There was a long, stretch of silence.

"I haven't suddenly died, have I?"

Dorian glanced to him, assuming that the other had been joking, but soon noticed Mahanon's quite serious demeanor. "What makes you say that?"

"Well. The keeper used to say that when you die, Mythal supposedly weeps for your loss. We are buried then with flowers, representing the beauty, briefness, and fragility of life. Each one is a memory you've had in the life you lived, so that you can remember everything when the next life starts. When you awaken, Falon'Din comes to guide you to the life beyond, wearing the face of a friend. One that you trust to guide you."

Figuring that this was some lingering remnant of fever, Dorian crouched down and waved until he got the Inquisitor's attention. He tried not to focus on the warm, fluttering of his stomach upon hearing that he was someone Mahanon trusted, even beyond the grave. "I'm afraid you're still our brave leader, and that you are still indeed quite alive. Can't have you venturing off to the spirit world just yet, Lavellan."

Mahanon stared at the flowers on his lap for a moment longer, then blearily rubbed his eyes with his right hand. "Well, no. That'd be too easy." He yawned, then mumbled. “I suppose we've arrived then?"

"Yes. I believe most of our group are still scouting out the castle itself. As you've no doubt noticed, Sera and the children entertained themselves." Dorian gestured to the woven chains on the elf's lap.

"I see." 

His voice was dry, but not without humor. Dorian offered him a water pouch to drink from and straightened from his crouch. Mahanon eyed it warily for a moment, much to the mage's amusement, but accepted it and took a long drink from it with an appreciative sigh. He looked to be leagues better from the state he'd been in when Cullen had showed up in their pathetic excuse for a camp, carrying the frozen, half-dead elf in his arms. Better, but not quite recovered. 

Now finished, Mahanon offered the waterskin back and retreated into the safety of his blanket fort, muffling a sneeze. Dorian could not help the smile that grew on his face when he noticed how lopsided his crown on the Inquisitor's head had gotten. Without thinking, he reached over and fixed it with gentle fingers. Mahanon cringed, much like he'd done when Dorian had checked his fever not so long ago. Puzzled, the mage drew his hand away and swallowed his discomforted confusion back before he had the chance to remark on it. He hadn't done anything more than barely touch the rogue. He didn't understand what he was doing wrong.

Thankfully, there was not much time to reflect on it, as Cullen and Leliana had returned from their own scouting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~*******~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The castle was magnificent. Truly, Dorian could think of no better word. It might have been shabby now, but in its prime? It must have been a wonder. Currently, he was roaming the spire, having been lured by the musty smell of books. For the most part, they were organized, which made it rather easy to pick through them. But Dorian was from Tevinter, and their sorting system was different. Still, it was a trying task to keep him busy, and if there was one thing Dorian loved, it was a challenge. 

Hellbent on finding some form of Fereldan philosophy, he almost didn't notice the hushed whispers of elvish that drifted up from below. Curios, he picked a random book from the shelf, and made his way over to the railing, leafing through the pages while trying wholly to appear as if he was not currently eavesdropping.

Solas and Mahanon were deep in conversation below, hunched over something Dorian could not yet see. 

While he could not understand what they were saying, he did recognize the subtle changes in tone. Mahanon sounded exhausted in his native tongue. The more he spoke, the more in pain he appeared. Solas seemed to be distant, more so than he usually was. There was a coldness in his voice, but it seemed more of sadness than anything. Mahanon said something that Dorian was almost positive meant thank you, and stiffly took his leave. The other elf watched after him for a moment, then took a seat and sighed.

"Good book?"

Leliana suddenly breaking his concentration caused him to startle a little and almost had him drop the book he'd been pretending to read. He cleared his throat and looked up to their spymaster. She had the unpleasant sort of smile that some people wore when they’d just caught another doing something they shouldn’t.

“Yes, actually.”

Leliana glanced down at the book for a moment, then back up. “I had no idea you were so interested in the life and times of Divine Lorianna.”

Dorian looked as if he’d just bitten a lemon, and all but glared at the book in his hands. With great distaste, he stalked back to the shelf and slid the book back in. “Well, It’s not as if you understood them either.”

She made herself comfortable on the cushioned seat by the window, turning her gaze to the hustle and bustle of the outside. “I have elven agents, it’s true. But I find that elves guard their secrets much more carefully.” Dorian hummed to let her know that he was only half-listening, and she breathed a tired sigh. “The two elves I did know quite personally were not Dalish, so you’re right. I may not know what they spoke of, but that does not mean I could not come to my own conclusion.”

“Fascinating.” He drawled, trying to get the point across that he was finished speaking with her. She caught him, and that was the end of it. He didn’t like to dwell on matters of embarrassment.

“You do your best to come off as sour, but we all saw you with the Inquisitor.” Leliana, stood from her chair, heading for the staircase that would take her higher in the spire. “I’m still unsure what you plan to offer in the Inquisition, but I do not doubt your intentions. You must have noticed the Anchor has been troubling him for some time. As much as Vivienne preens, her skills lie elsewhere. If you think you can help the Inquisitor in any way, I implore you to do so.”

What was with everyone asking him to take care of Mahanon suddenly? 

He was about to shoot back a venomous retort but she had gone. It wasn't as if Dorian didn't care for Mahanon, but he did have a reputation to keep up. If everyone started seeing how soft he truly was, he’d just be asking for someone to come along and twist a dagger in his stomach. And as much as he was fond of the Inquisitor, he happened to be a guarded person who didn't handle pain very well.

Better to let them all think him a selfish ass, looking only to further his own agenda then assume he was anything else. Anything good.

Dorian uttered a Tevene curse and went back to scouring, driving any and all sour thoughts he had away on his search.

~~~~~~~~~~~~*******~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mahanon looked around his room in a daze. Josephine was rambling on about one thing or another and he vaguely heard her mention that she would take her leave. He didn’t have the mental capacity to deal with any hard questions at the moment and greatly appreciated that the Antivan had noticed. Weary, he began to strip of his coat and armor, letting it fall onto the stone floor without much thought. If he wasn’t still so ill, he might have given more thought to the room. Its ceilings were high and the loft above was a perfect vantage point from which to fire on the off chance he was attacked. The windows were, for lack of a better word, beautiful. Clearly, this room had been crafted to house someone special, but Mahanon was far more interested in the pile of furs that looked so inviting. He eased himself down on them, still incredibly sore from his fight with Corypheus and long trek through waist-high snow afterwards. He wrestled with his boots for a minute or so, then gave up on them. The laces were simply on too tight for them to be bothered with. 

Breathing a long sigh, he eased himself back into the plush furs, curling his legs and drawing a lighter one over his small form. Without all his armor, he truly was small. His coat made him appear bulkier, as it was a few sizes too big, and the chestplate and pauldrons helped fill it out. Mahanon could only imagine what he must look like now to them. 

Frail. Weak. Vulnerable.

Mahanon clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, resisting the urge to use the Anchor to blow a hole in one of the walls. He waited for the feeling to pass, then forced himself to relax. He turned over in his makeshift bed so he could better stare at the ceiling. The weak sunlight that peeked through the windows painted the stones above him in a mock, starry sky. He almost fell asleep there, but a growing, uncomfortable feeling on his scalp kept slumber at bay. Confused, he raised his right hand to his forehead, fingers touching a flower. He raised his head a bit and grasped the plant, tugging off the flower crown he’d forgotten all about. Drowsily, he ran a thumb over one of the dandelions. Dorian’s face came to mind, and it was with a sickening feeling that he realised he was subconsciously smiling. 

He scowled at the offending flora and lifted his arm to chuck the thing across the room, but stopped himself at the last moment. He scoffed and set it on the floor next to him, turning away from the crown as if it had offended him somehow. 

Such a stupid thing to get worked up over. He was supposed to be the Inquisitor, not fawning over silly flowers. 

Mahanon shut his eyes again, willing the images of Dorian to fade, but it was no easy feat. Dorian had been by his side longer than anyone had ever been in a very long time. His last, bleary thought was trying to come up with a way to express his gratitude for all that he’d done in the past week. 

Somehow, a simple; thank you, didn’t seem like it would be enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~*******~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So uh, why exactly did you call me again?” Krem asked, peeking around the stack of books on the table with a frown. 

“You’re from Tevinter!” Dorian placed another stack on whatever empty space he could find. “People here are backwards. Instead of filing them by book title, they put them by Author. Which makes absolutely no sense. When you read a book, what is it you remember, hmm? The title or who wrote it?”

“I don’t--- I don’t really read much.”

Dorian stopped in his tracks, putting a hand to his chest, doing his best to look outraged. “Preposterous!”

Krem shrugged, trying his best not to smile. “Doesn’t mean I don’t know how to, you know.” 

“I would hope not!” The mage breathed out, smoothing the front of his tunic. His harness was fashionable, but not very practical when it came to cleaning. He’d opted to wear something lighter while he took on the task of reorganizing. Those buckles weren’t easy to clean. “Anyway, you also happen to be strong, good company, and while home isn’t so much home for either of us anymore, I… Thought it…”

Krem nodded sagely, understanding. When he spoke next, it was in their mother tongue. “I felt the same when I first left. I had the Chargers, at least.”

Dorian shrugged, taking a rag and dusting off the first of many shelves.

“This your first time being away?”

“I’ve been on trips before. Kirkwall, Denerim, Starkhaven.”

The warrior began to sort through the pile, putting out books and setting them in their appropriate stacks. “I didn’t ask if you’d been on vacations, Pavus.” 

Dorian scoffed, but did his best not to snap. “Yes.”

Krem crossed the room, a heap of books in his arms. They began with year dates and the first letter of the alphabet. Since most of the books here were written in common, it’d be easier to file them away. “I can only say it’ll get easier. Dunno about you, but I didn’t exactly leave at a good time in my life.”

“I can’t say I did either.”

Krem snorted, shelving his pile in the way the mage had instructed. “Tevinter sucks.”

Dorian looked thoughtful and stepped to the table, gathering up his own stack. “It doesn’t have to.”

“What? You’re going to change Tevinter all by yourself?” Krem laughed, turning to face him with an unmoved look. “You know what happens to people who don’t fit in there. They end up running, like us. Or worse.”

“And we should just let them chase us out? Out of our own home? Tevinter is a great many things Krem, and not all of them are bad. I refuse to believe it’s beyond saving.”

Krem leaned against the shelf, cocking a brow. “I didn’t say that. Just that, people like us usually don’t get happy endings.”

Dorian set his books down, feeling out of steam all of a sudden. “Maybe not. But nothing will happen if things continue as they are.”

“Thinking of starting a revolution Pavus? All on your own?”

“The Inquisitor is doing it, isn’t he?”

Krem offered a lopsided smile. “Spitfire’s got himself a whole army. The two of us wouldn’t stand a chance there, and neither would he for that matter.”

Dorian groaned and took a seat, running a hand down his mustache. Krem laughed lightly and walked back over to the table, grabbing another pile and returning to the bookshelf.

“Come on. You wanted to get this done today, right? Sitting on your ass won’t do shit.” 

Dorian sulked for a moment more but dragged himself back up again, handing the merc another stack before stripping the second shelf. Krem was quiet for a while, and after they’d finished the first bookshelf, he gave Dorian’s shoulder a pat.

“If it’s any consolation, if anyone could do it, I’d want it to be you.”

Dumbfounded, Dorian almost dropped his rag. His chest swelled with gratitude and he was more touched than Krem would ever know. But there he was getting all sentimental. The mage huffed quietly and dusted off his shelf, muttering a quiet thank you that he sincerely hoped was lost in the wind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~*******~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Winter turned into spring, and after a few weeks, Skyhold had transformed into a fully functioning base of operations. Cassandra took over for Cullen in the training courtyard, seeing to most of the basic training for the new recruits. Cole, Sera, and Bull and the Chargers took to squatting in Herald’s Rest whereas Dorian, Solas, and Leliana kept to the spire. Varric found a place in the midst of things, keeping a watchful eye and ear on their many visitors. Josephine was hardly seen outside her office, and likewise was Blackwall ever present at the stables. Lastly, Vivienne took it upon herself to take residence in the loft that overlooked the court. No one really had the patience to argue with her anyway. They had made Skyhold their home, and the more Mahanon returned to it after each mission, the more it began to feel like his too.

He led his horse to the stables, swinging a leg over and hopping down before herding it towards a stall. Dennet offered him a wave and went back to his work, leaving the Inquisitor to his own devices. Mahanon had some time yet, and took it upon himself to strip and water his mount. 

She was a strong, mild-mannered mare. Buttercup, he thought her name was. Mahanon hadn’t ever been a fan of horses, but she’d served him well. She was docile enough that she almost resembled a halla, and the familiar twinge of homesickness tugged on his heart. He ignored the feeling though, and unbuckled the saddle from around her back. He pulled the blanket off and tugged loose the rein from her muzzle after leading her to a trough. Grabbing a wet rag, he began to wipe the sweat and dirt from her body, giving care on her more tender parts. When finished, he gave her quarters a couple firm pats and made to leave. She whinnied and flicked her tail, hitting him square in the face. Startled, he took a step back, but she only turned her head and nuzzled him. Mahanon felt a smirk twitch on his lips, and he shoved her back gently. He missed the days of looking after mounts. He'd done it when he'd first come to Fereldan, and even long before that. He felt his eyes droop and Buttercup must have sensed his sadness because she fretted and gently headbutted him again. Glad for the moment to be alone, the elf wrapped his arms around her muzzle and gave her a quick hug.

“Looks like you've got an admirer.”

Mahanon glanced off to see Blackwall leaning on the door frame nearby, lazy smile all but hidden by his beard. Embarrassed, he stepped away from Buttercup and moved back, more towards the kitchen stairs than either the horse or the Warden. “Animals just... like me.”

“I’ve noticed.” Blackwall pushed off from the door frame and stepped near the elf, jerking his head in a manner that said; walk with me. “I’ve seen wild birds fly straight into your hands. Don’t know _how_ you do it.”

Mahanon shifted for a moment, but followed the man at arms length, wondering where they were going. “It’s not so much me as it is them.”

“Is it an elf thing?”

“Somewhat.” Though, that wasn’t entirely the case. “I just don’t… Have a threatening aura. They trust me.”

Blackwall hummed, leading them past the bazaar and up the stairs. “You seem to get along better with beasts then you do people.”

Mahanon’s voice was dry. “So you’ve noticed.” 

The Warden laughed, low and gravelly. They reached the top before he turned around to answer, crossing both arms over his chest. “We’ve all noticed. S’all right. We’ve all got our reasons for doing what we do.”

Mahanon shifted, ducking into his coat. “What’s your point, Blackwall?”

“No point. I just wanted to walk with you is all.”

The elf was about to retort with something witty when purple and gold flashed in the corner of his eye. He turned slightly and saw Josephine standing a ways off, clipboard in hand and talking to the head surgeon. He watched her for a moment, then turned back to Blackwall who--- had stopped looking at him. The pieces came together after a moment, and he shook his head. “Walk with me? Are you sure it’s not the Lady Montilyet you wish to walk alongside?”

Blackwall spluttered, cheeks already flushing red. Mahanon only smirked.

“To quote; ‘we’ve all noticed’ you as well.” The Warden did not look impressed, but Mahanon wasn’t too concerned. He folded his arms behind his back and turned towards the last flight of stairs. “In my culture, we give each other flowers when we wish to show interest.”

“Flowers.”

“ _Yes,_ flowers. Pretty ones.”

Blackwall looked thoughtful for a moment and Mahanon tugged on the sleeves of his coat. “If you wanted a reason for her to come speak with you, instead of using me as bait, wouldn't it be easier to ask to speak with her? Seems a bit roundabout this way. Not to mention sneaky.”

“That would be rude. Besides, she has other priorities.”

“If you really believed that, you wouldn’t pine so openly.” Mahanon tilted his head slightly and smiled. “Give it a try and see. You’ll regret it later, if you do nothing and she slips away.”

“Perhaps I will. Thank you, Inquisitor.”

“Please, call me…. Mahanon.”

“Thank you, _Inquisitor.”_ Blackwall said again on purpose, uncrossing his arms. “And if flowers express romantic interest, it seems like you’ve already got someone.”

Mahanon felt his mouth pull off into a confused frown, then realization hit him. He squared his shoulders and didn’t respond, all but marching up the stairs. Nosy Wardens, always poking their noses in places that didn't belong. They'd live so much longer if they minded their own business, he thought sourly as he brushed passed several people whose greetings died on their lips when they saw the cold expression on his face. 

He was not interested in Dorian. 

He would _never_ be.


End file.
